


The T-Shirt Means I Love You

by laireshi



Category: Iron Man (Comic), Marvel 616
Genre: AI Tony, Fluff, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 15:56:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12172098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laireshi/pseuds/laireshi
Summary: "You’re wearing my clothes.”Steve wants to take the words back as soon as he said them, because obviously Tony isn’t wearing his clothes, Tony’s not wearing any clothes, Tony’s an artificial intelligence, but StevewishesTony were corporealandwearing his clothes, preferably in his bed.





	The T-Shirt Means I Love You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [baneme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/baneme/gifts).
  * Inspired by [AI Tony and Steve](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/325590) by Baneme. 



> Look at Baneme's art, it's amazing! 
> 
> So. This is pure fluff. I'm sorry? Uh, it's set post-Secret Empire, Steve's back to normal here.
> 
> A fill for my bingo card, "shopping together".

The first time Steve steps into Tony’s lab and sees Tony in his new digital form _without_ his armour on, he pauses. This is . . . not what he expected, if he had expected anything at all. 

Tony must take his silence for in the wrong way, because he winces. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Is this creepy? I know I must look like a ghost, but I’m _used_ to having a body, not like Friday, and—”

“No,” Steve cuts off his rambling, still amazed how Tony can just treat him like everything’s fine, like nothing’s happened. Tony, whom Steve had hurt _so much_. Who always had a heart too big for his own good. Who acts like things are really back to normal.

Except, not quite _normal_ , are they? 

Steve stares at Tony some more, taking him in, because it’s just _too much_ , in a good way, but still. He wants to remember it forever, in case he’ll say something stupid now and never see it again.

“No, it’s . . . fine,” Steve says. “I don’t mind that you’re a hologram now—I’d prefer if your body _weren’t_ in a coma, of course, but I’m glad you’re still here.”

Tony smiles, relieved, and though his face is blue and slightly transparent—like a ghost indeed—the expression is still so very much _him_. His eyes _light up_. “Not many people think that,” he mutters, and then, “but something bothers you, Steve.”

“Not _bothers_ ,” Steve says. “It’s just—you’re wearing my clothes.” He wants to take the words back as soon as he said them, because obviously Tony isn’t wearing his clothes, Tony’s not wearing any clothes, Tony’s an artificial intelligence, but Steve _wishes_ Tony were corporeal _and_ wearing his clothes, preferably in his bed—

He cuts this train of thought before it gets any further. He’s so lucky Tony’s not a mind-reader. And it’s _his_ fault Tony has to be in this digital form right now, he has no business thinking of any kind of a relationship with him. 

As if. 

The warped version of him got everything, everything wrong—with one small exception.

Steve loved Tony. He still does.

If Tony had any sense at all, he’d run from Steve and never come back. But no, Tony, who’s supposed to be a genius, has stayed at Steve’s side throughout all this crisis, had _believed_ in Steve the whole time, and Steve doesn’t know what to do with it.

And now this: Tony, or a hologram of Tony, who can make himself look whatever way he likes, wear anything in the world—and he has a t-shirt on with a white star on it, like on Steve’s uniform. Like so many of Steve’s clothes, and Tony used to tease him about it, not take his fashion inspirations from him. (Steve’s definitely _not_ thinking of how even the digital t-shirt seems too big for Tony’s frame, as if it was modelled from Steve’s own clothes, because obviously that’s impossible.)

Tony looks down at himself, seeming self-conscious the way he never is. “Ah. Is that a problem?”

“No problem!” Steve hurries to reassure him, probably a bit too fast. “Just . . . unexpected.”

Tony sighs. “It’s just—you’re my friend, Steve. You’re my best friend. And people blame you for something you haven’t done. And I’m doing all I can to make it better—”

Steve knows that, and he’s still not sure how he’s feeling about it. He’s moved at the gesture, sure, but he _knows_ Tony must have better things to spend his money on than clearing Steve’s name.

“—but, I thought—it’s dumb.” He half-turns away from Steve, towards his screens.

“Tell me,” Steve asks.

And Tony turns back, because when has he ever _not_ when Steve was asking?

“I wanted—I can’t do anything like this.” He gestures at himself. “Sure, my teams are handling the PR, but I can’t do anything _personally_. So I thought I could do at least this. To show you, and everyone else, that I trust you. Completely.”

Steve’s mouth is very dry. “Why?” he asks quietly. “Why do you trust me, Tony? After everything I’ve done to you—and you were the one who never thought that—that other Steve Rogers—was me. It’s not like you and me never fought. You of all people would’ve had reasons to doubt. And yet . . .”

Tony looks annoyed now. “It was hard for me to imagine yourself painting the Hydra symbol on your chest,” he snaps. He looks somewhere behind Steve before steeling himself and meeting Steve’s eyes. “He wasn’t you, he wasn’t you in _any_ way that matters. He was evil, and you, Steve? All the times we fought? _You_ only ever fought for good. I might’ve disagreed with you, and many times I wished I _could_ agree, but I always knew you wanted to do good. _He_ was the opposite of that. And I noticed too late, didn’t I? I could’ve stopped it all, if only I paid more attention—”

“Don’t,” Steve interrupts him. The amount of Tony’s faith in him is humbling, is staggering, is terrific and terrible, and he’s not even sure how to reply to that—but he knows he can’t let Tony finish his next sentence. “He took my face and my memories and he lied to you, he _used_ you, and _none of that was your fault_.”

Tony huffs a laugh. He doesn’t look amused. “I just said you were my best friend, and I didn’t even notice when you were gone.”

Steve closes his eyes for a moment. He takes a deep breath. “You couldn’t have noticed,” he says. “He _was_ me; to a point. He knew everything about me. He knew—he knew how to act around you and make it seem real, because he knew how I feel about you.”

Tony goes very still. It’s funny, in a way: he is just a holographic image, but it’s barely noticeable, the colour aside. His chest moves, he blinks, it’s like he’s _real_. But right now he goes completely, unnaturally, still. 

“And . . . how do you feel about me, Steve?” he asks.

Steve knows he walked right into it, only has himself to blame, but _maybe,_ just maybe, if Tony _had known_ before, none of this would’ve happened. Maybe Steve should’ve confessed and lived with the rejection, but with no more lies. The least he can do is tell Tony the truth now.

So he squares his shoulders, keeps his eyes on Tony’s face, and says, “I love you.”

Tony’s eyes widen.

Steve finds that now that he said it, he can’t stop explaining. “All the times we disagreed, and all the times we fought—god, Tony, _no one_ can make me as mad as you. And that’s my fault, that’s because I love you so damn much, and it hurts so much when you’re not on my side, and—god, Tony, I’ve loved you almost since I’ve first seen you, saving me from the ice.”

Tony’s shaking his head, and Steve’s heart falls.

“No,” Tony’s saying, “I’m—fuck, someone hacked my protocols, or it’s a virus, can artificial intelligence even hallucinate, I know I physically _can’t_ be dreaming—”

Steve wants to laugh. Is this Tony’s problem?

He attempts to grab Tony by his shoulders and shake him—and he can’t, his hands go straight through. The effect is kinda creepy, but Steve just lifts his hands back up and keeps them where Tony’s shoulders should be. 

Tony shuts up and looks at him intently. “. . . did you mean it?” he whispers. 

“Every word,” Steve says.

Tony laughs, suddenly, leans forward until their foreheads are almost touching, clearly more mindful than Steve that he’s non-corporeal. “If I could,” he announces, “I would kiss you right now.”

Steve’s head is swimming. 

“I love you, Steve Rogers,” Tony says, unusually seriously. “I’ve long since lost hope you could ever feel the same—but it’s always been true. I love you.”

Steve wants to kiss him. Steve wants, more than anything, to embrace him and never let him go. He has to settle for nodding, weakly, feeling all shaky. 

This is clearly a day of the unexpected, in all the best ways. 

“I wish I could touch you,” Steve says, “but I don’t mind. I’ll wait for you. And even if—even if you never wake up—it’s not as if you’re _not_ here. This is enough for me.”

Something propels him forward, suddenly, and he realises Tony’s called his armour to himself and is now hugging Steve, with his armoured arms to his armoured chest, and it’s almost right, almost true. 

“Leave the helmet off,” Steve says. “I still want to look at you.”

Tony’s smile is the sweetest thing ever.

(The next morning, Steve changes his morning job into a morning shopping, and goes back to the Tower, proudly wearing a red t-shirt with a golden Iron Man helmet on it.

Tony _beams_ every time he looks at it.)


End file.
